Truth Serum
by only-more-love
Summary: Alcohol frees the tongue to say what is in the heart. x Booth and Brennan x
1. Chapter 1

**Timeframe:** A few weeks after _Santa in the Slush_.  
**Story Note: **Ok, so if you've read Things That Never Happened... this will look familiar. I warned you in the notes for that that I was tempted to continue this story. I lost the battle; the second chapter should be up shortly.  
**Author's Note:** Comments are always appreciated, and though it usually takes me a while, I try to respond to them all. :)

This is for everyone who's listened to me vent. You know who you are. Thank you.

* * *

"How many times do I have to tell you this? Jesus is not a zombie." Booth tossed a peanut into his mouth and waited for Brennan's sharp retort, but it never came. "Bones?" When she didn't respond, he swiveled to look at her. 

She'd fallen asleep, head cradled in her folded arms. Always a surprise—his partner.

"Ok. No more Black and Coke for you," Booth whispered next to her ear, fighting the urge to smooth her hair off her forehead.

"Yes. I'll have one more," she replied, slowly lifting her head and sliding her arms off the scratched surface of the bar.

"I think it's time to get you home." He finished off his drink and felt it settle warmly in his stomach; he preferred his Johnnie neat. Seeing her reach for her glass, he shoved it away from her. "Nope, I'm cutting you off. 'Cause you, Dr. Brennan"—he leaned in so they were at eye-level—"are drunk."

"I am not inberiated." Her eyebrows came together in a frown. "Inrebiated." She blinked owlishly and shook her head, and Booth coughed to cover the laugh that bubbled up in his throat.

"Inebriated?" he added helpfully, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, that," she replied, thumping her fist on the bar.

"Wait right here," he said, patting her shoulder.

"Don't order me around, Booth." She shrugged his hand away, scowling, and he waited a moment just to make sure she didn't slide off her barstool.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Bones," he said, tossing a grin over his shoulder as he stepped away to settle their tab.

He returned to find her trying to put on her coat—backwards. She bit her lip, deep in concentration, and Booth stood back, arms folded, and watched. It wasn't often that he had the chance to witness his partner demonstrating anything less than total competence. He had every intention of enjoying it while he could. "There's something wrong with these buttons, Booth," she finally muttered, looking up at him with confusion in her blue eyes.

Stifling a smirk at her predicament, he snagged the coat from her and helped her put it on the right way. After he'd made sure all the buttons were done up, he slipped on his own coat. Grasping Brennan's upper arm, he led her out into the cold January night in order to hail a cab. He wasn't drunk—just pleasantly buzzed—but there was no way he'd take that kind of chance.

* * *

After paying the driver, Booth slid out of the cab and came around the other side to help Brennan. They made their way up the sidewalk to her building without incident. When they stopped at the front door, she fumbled for the keys in her coat pocket and then promptly dropped them. "I have them, don't worry. I can find them." She bent to search the snow for the keys. 

Given Brennan's current state, Booth had a feeling his balls would turn into ice cubes before she found her keys, so he leaned down to help.

Unfortunately, she chose that exact moment to straighten, smashing her head into his jaw and sending him sprawling in the snow at her feet. "Ow. Jesus, Bones. Be careful."

"I told you I had them." With a triumphant smile, she jangled the keys in front of him. When it finally seemed to penetrate her freakishly-large brain that he was on the ground, the smile faded. "I am extremely sorry, Booth," she said, enunciating very carefully. "I didn't intend to injure you." She rubbed her head.

"Don't worry about it." Slowly, he stood, brushing off his coat and feeling the wetness the snow had left behind on his pants. "I'll live." Since he couldn't decide if his jaw or his ass hurt worse, he settled for rubbing the latter. Then he sighed and wiggled his jaw to make sure everything was still intact.

"Yes, of that I'm certain. At most you have a contusion." She stretched her arm toward him, and her hand grazed his hip. "I could massage it for you," she said, her expression earnest.

"Whoa." He grabbed her hand before it could wander anywhere dangerous. "Hands to yourself, Bones."

"Ah, yes. I forgot—the line." She nodded sagely, eyes wide.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The line that separates partnership from sexual intercourse, of course."

"Ok, let's get you inside." He'd temporarily forgotten there was something even more dangerous than her hands—her mouth.

"I suppose partners don't massage one another's buttocks."

Booth closed his eyes and tipped his head back, taking a deep breath of the wintry air. God definitely wasn't on his side tonight. That, or He was having a good laugh at Booth's expense. "No, that they don't." _Unfortunately._

"Pity. I've been told by several people that I have good hands."

"Uh huh."

"Are you certain you wouldn't like a demonstration?" If he didn't know better, he'd say she sounded almost hopeful.

"Yeah. Thanks, but"—he sighed regretfully—"no thanks."

* * *

Once he helped her into her bedroom and out of her coat, she sat down on her bed and immediately started yanking at her clothes. A sweater flew at his head and he stepped back, covering his eyes. He wouldn't peek. That wouldn't be gentlemanly, and he prided himself on being a gentleman. Well, most of the time. "What are you doing?" 

"Getting undressed. I'm hot."

Yes she was, he thought, picturing her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "I'm uh, assuming you can manage that on your own, so I'm going to leave now." He turned away.

"But what if I need assistance?"

"Do you?" he asked, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his neck.

"I think I do. I'm having difficulty with this button."

That which does not kill us makes us stronger, he reminded himself. "All right." He sighed and squared his shoulders, preparing to meet his fate.

Keeping his gaze glued to her face, he undid the button on her pants, careful to keep his hands away from everything else. Then he turned around again.

Fabric rustled as Brennan presumably pulled the pants down over her hips and... More rustling. "You can turn around now. I'm under the blanket."

When he turned around, he found her sitting up in her bed with the blanket pulled up over her shoulders.

"Did that make you uncomfortable?"

"No." He swallowed.

"Because you behaved as if you'd never seen a woman's body before."

"I've seen plenty of women, Bones. That's not the point—"

"Yes, I suppose you have," she said with a thoughtful nod. "Rebecca, Dr. Saroyan—"

"Ok. I'm going to leave now so you can go to sleep. Good night, Bones." Eager to escape, he didn't wait for an answer; he just turned and walked away.

But her voice stopped him in mid-step. "Angela says I have you wrapped around my toe."

Even though he should have been used to the whiplash changes in topic that often occurred during their conversations, this one threw him off. Just his luck that booze had removed the paper-thin filter she had between her brain and her mouth. He cleared his throat. "I think she probably meant finger, Bones," he said, turning and bracing his hand against the doorframe. "But please—do me a favor and don't listen to anything Angela says about you and me."

"So you're saying she's wrong?" He glanced up from studying the carpet to see something that looked suspiciously like disappointment cross her face; he'd always hated being the cause of that particular look.

"I'm saying"—he sighed and wiped his mouth—"that you're my partner and a good friend."

"Don't think I'm not aware that you didn't answer my question, Booth." Of course she'd noticed that. Even drunk, she saw things he'd rather she didn't.

"Bones, you're drunk, tired, and there's no point in having this conversation when you're not even going to remember it tomorrow." There. Maybe that would satisfy her.

"How do you know I won't remember it?"

"Well, I don't know for sure. But you did drink a lot. I'll tell you what"—he scratched the back of his neck and wondered if he'd live to regret what he was about to say—"if you wake up tomorrow and still have...questions, ask me then."

"Are you sure you mean that?" she asked, watching him with a frown.

With her looking at him like that, Booth knew he had no choice but to tell the truth. So he paused and repeated her question silently. When he was confident he knew the answer, he spoke. "Yeah, I'm sure."

The frown smoothed out, and Booth released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "All right. Good night, Booth. You can go now."

Her dismissal pulled a smile from him. "Night, Bones."

"Wait. Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"I lied."

"About what?" he said, frowning.

"Kissing you, well, it wasn't like kissing Russ."

Funny how she almost always got the last word. "Oh."

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Timeframe:** A few weeks after _Santa in the Slush_.  
**Author's Note:** Comments are always appreciated, and though it usually takes me a while, I try to respond to them all. :)

* * *

Booth couldn't help the smile that stretched his mouth as he slid a worn pair of jeans up over his legs and zipped and buttoned them. Thinking of his partner's antics the night before had that effect. Never a dull moment with Brennan, that was for sure. He'd regretfully turned down a massage from the good doctor after finding himself ass-deep in the snow outside her building courtesy of her headbutt. (He'd always known she had a hard head.) God had better give him extra points for showing that level of restraint; he deserved that much, damn it. 

He'd bet she really did have good hands. All those hours she spent piecing together bone fragments had to be good for something other than identifying people. He shrugged and sighed. Too bad he'd never have firsthand knowledge.

It shouldn't have surprised him that she made such a cute drunk, but it did. With a couple drinks in her, Brennan was bright eyes, alcohol-flushed cheeks, and dangerous words falling from pretty lips. Words that burrowed into his brain and patiently laid in wait for his weaker moments—not that he had so many of those. She'd been drunk, unaware of what she was saying and doing. But he was sober—at least now. So why had her parting words bounced around in his head all night long, and why were they still there now, mocking him? _Kissing you, well, it wasn't like kissing Russ._

If she'd meant to drive him insane, which, let's face it, she often did, she'd succeeded. What did her comment mean, anyway? If it wasn't like kissing her brother, what _was_ it like? Like kissing a friend? Like kissing a stranger? Like kissing who exactly?

This, among other reasons, was exactly why he'd tried to forget: The road to hell was paved with thoughts of making out with his partner.

He'd tried to forget those seconds when her hands had wrapped around the lapels of his coat and held him in place. Did she really think he was going to run away from his one chance to live out a tiny piece of his fantasies? Actually, she clearly had no idea about his fantasies 'cause she hadn't broken any of his bones yet. And, well, not that his fantasies included Caroline watching them. Kinky, and not in a good way. Gross. No. But that's why fantasy was fantasy and reality was reality.

And reality dictated that Brennan saw him as a partner and a friend—nothing more—and that was a really good thing. Of course right now he couldn't think of a single reason why that was the case. But still.

Those memories of mistletoe—and her mouth pressed against his—had been shoved into that locked box labeled "Someday," along with a dozen other things that needed to wait, and he'd promised himself he would try not to think about them. So far he'd been successful—(ok, only kind of). Until she'd opened that crazy, ridiculous, perfect mouth of hers and dragged back into the light thoughts of the other things he now knew she could do with her mouth.

As he frowned into his closet and pushed aside yet another hanger, he realized it really shouldn't matter what he wore. Not like he was trying to impress her. Hell no. He just wanted to check in on her and maybe snicker a little at the monster hangover she mostly liked had. It was the partnerly thing to do. Not like she'd actually remember what she'd said last night. Not like she'd actually want to talk about...things—like whatever craziness Angela had filled her head with about him being wrapped her finger or toe or any other of her assorted lovely body parts. Not like _he'd_ want to talk about those things either. Nope. 'Cause that would mean he was insane. Scared by his own thoughts, Booth hastily grabbed the next item he saw—a black sweater—and yanked it over his head.

What would it take to impress her anyway? Gritting his teeth, he shoved that thought into another locked box.

See, thinking could only lead to bad things. Very bad things. That's why Booth preferred to act.

Without bothering to gel his hair like he usually did because hello, how he looked didn't matter if he was just going to see his partner, Booth strode out of his bedroom and into his kitchen. He grabbed a couple supplies from his fridge and cabinets and dumped them in a paper bag. There was no telling what she actually had in her kitchen, one successful attempt at making orgasmic macaroni and cheese notwithstanding.

* * *

Why was the building shaking? It must be an earthquake. At least 5.0 on the Richter scale. Yes, that must be it. 

No, that was statistically improbable, her brain helpfully supplied. Washington D.C. certainly wasn't a hotbed of seismic activity.

All right, so if tectonic plates grinding against each other weren't the source of the shaking, what was?

Brennan pried open an eyelid that only begrudgingly cooperated and then promptly shut it again as the sunlight blazing through her window scored her sensitive eyes. With a pained groan, she rolled onto her side, putting her back to the offending window. That's when the building really started shaking. Wincing, Brennan clutched her head. Oh, it wasn't the apartment that was shaking; it was her brain, rattling around in her cranium. A colony of gnomes with pointed hats frolicked in her head, giggling insidiously and giving her brain case the occasional jab with a miniature pickaxe.

But that couldn't be correct either because gnomes didn't exist—she hadn't seen a single paper or journal article proving their existence—and even if they did—why would they have taken up residence in her head? That hardly seemed like an appropriate habitat for them. It simply wasn't logical.

As she lay on her side with her face squashed in her pillow and wearily pondered the existence (or lack thereof) of gnomes, her doorbell rang. The shrill sound pierced her eardrums; she swore they were bleeding. If opening an eye had seemed painful, this was the equivalent of having her eyelashes plucked out one by one.

Determined to ignore the noise, she pulled the blanket over her head and waited for the destroyer of her rest to go away. She counted silently. _One steamboat, two steamboats, three steamboats, four steamboats, five steamboats. _No sooner had she reached the fifth steamboat, which had the unfortunate effect of conjuring distracting yet oddly enticing images of Booth and mistletoe and kissing, than the doorbell shrieked again and again and again. The musical accompaniment delighted the gnomes, who cackled and began to spin like dervishes.

Clearly whoever stood outside her door was persistent. No matter; she would dispense with them and then crawl back into her bed. Slowly, so as not to make her head spin any more than was strictly necessary, Brennan sat up and inched her legs over the edge of the mattress. Unfortunately, her foot caught in her blanket and she tumbled off the bed and onto the carpet. As carefully as she could, she stood. Goosebumps broke out over her body and she looked down to see that she was only wearing underwear. Her gaze stumbled over her room and paused when it found her maroon sweater. She frowned. Why was her sweater lying on the floor by her bedroom door? A clean, orderly environment was the sign of a clean, orderly mind; she didn't leave her clothes strewn on the floor. Without bothering to check if it it was inside out or not, she pulled the sweater over her head and flipped her hair out of the collar.

Just as Brennan reached for the doorknob, the bell screamed for what felt like the thousandth time. She yanked the door open with what little energy she currently possessed and glared at the all-too-bright-eyed man standing on the other side. "What do you want?" she whispered, tasting sandpaper as she spoke for the first time that morning. She held up a hand to shade her eyes.

"Hey, Bones. Just wanted to check on you." His cheerful tone made her clench her jaw. Booth's gaze skipped downward for a moment and then shot back up to her face as he swallowed, his laryngeal prominence jumping in his throat.

Glancing down to see what had captured his attention, she realized a significant portion of her legs was bare. Nothing indecent, of course, as the sweater provided more than adequate coverage of all the unmentionables. Good, she thought with a twinge of malice, enjoying his discomfiture. If he was going to destroy her peace, he could stand to have his Catholic sensibilities singed a hair.

But her partner, who was never caught off-balance for long, grinned and angled his head toward her legs. "Aren't you cold?"

"No," she muttered, "I'm not. Because I'm going back to bed. Goodbye." She moved to shut the door, but he caught it with his hand and stepped inside.

He closed the door behind him. "Still putting stuff on backwards, I see," he said, lips twitching. He flicked the tag on her sweater and she slapped his hand away, scowling.

"What are you implying?" she whispered back.

"Never mind," he replied, shifting the paper bag he carried to his other arm. "You look like shit, Bones." His grin widened a fraction. "I can tell you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, Little Miss Sunshine."

"Go to hell, Booth," she whispered back.

"Why do you keep whispering?"

"Because of the gnomes. They like the noise. If we're quiet"—she shot him a pointed glance—"maybe they'll stop frolicking."

His eyebrows knit in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"The gnomes in my head," she said, trying to hold onto her admittedly limited patience. "Well, they may or not may be in my head, but it certainly feels like they are. Although—"

"Did you smoke up after I left last night?"

"Smoke up what?"

Booth's expression smoothed out. "Hell of a hangover, huh?" The knowing twinkle in his eyes spoke of amusement, not sympathy.

She sniffed. "I don't know what you're talking about." Unfortunately, it was all starting to come together now that total consciousness was finally assaulting her.

"I have just the cure," he said with a nod.

"What?" she asked, dreading his answer.

"Greasy food."

She made a face and clapped her hands over her stomach. "Ugh. No. I can't eat." The mere thought of food made her stomach roil.

"Yeah, you can. And you really should. It's the best thing for a hangover. I promise."

"Booth..."

"Don't Booth me, Bones." With another grin that filled her with the childish impulse to kick him in the shin, he leaned toward her and gave an exaggerated sniff. "You stink like booze. It's oozing out of your pores," he said, wagging his eyebrows. "Please have mercy on my nose and go shower. I'll make us some brunch."

"Why don't you ever take no for an answer?" she asked plaintively.

"Because you never really mean it."

How did Booth always manage to have a comeback ready for her? She narrowed her eyes at him and willed him to die. Science be damned. When nothing happened and he stood there as tall, handsome, and annoying as ever, she turned on her heel and tried to march down the hallway, though truthfully the march turned out to be a limp.

"Say hi to the gnomes," Booth called out, his voice warm with good-natured laughter.

Good-natured or not, he was laughing at her. Without looking back, she raised her arm and stuck out her middle finger.

His bark of laughter followed her down the hall. "In your dreams, Bones. In your dreams."

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Word Count**: 1408

**A/N: **Ideally, I'd like to update this story every Wednesday until it's finished. Since I'm doing NaNoWriMo, weekly may become biweekly instead. We'll see! In any case, here's a not-so-spooktacular (but also hopefully not_ crap_tacular) update. As always, if you've got a sec, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks to all who comment; friends, you make this fanfic thing even more enjoyable than it already is. :)

* * *

Brennan took her time in the shower, letting the hot water drip drip drip through the remaining fog blanketing her head. Her partner could wait. She frowned and shoved her wet hair away from her face. No one had asked Booth to show up at her apartment this morning, eyes clear and lucid, lips crooked in an irritatingly cheerful smile that made her fingers itch, bearing gifts of food she certainly didn't want.

Turning away from the spray, she let it pound her back and shoulders as she stretched out a hand, reaching for a bottle of one of her few cosmetic indulgences. The citrus basil body wash she squeezed into her palm had been an impromptu gift from Angela several months ago during one of the Sunday shopping expeditions Brennan occasionally let herself be coaxed into.

Though she might never admit it, she had come to look forward to those afternoon adventures in what Angela blithely referred to as "retail therapy." They filled the hollow, echoing places in her; the ones that had lingered long past the years when the girls around her giggled and passed intricately folded notes about attractive boys whose glances slid over and past a much younger Temperance Brennan. Years when her less awkward, more socially mobile female peers had leafed through glossy magazines before heading to the mall in packs to search for dresses to wear to the school dances she never attended.

No one ever asked her.

It didn't matter, she told herself. Silly conversations, silly concerns. Who needed them? She spent hours at the public library, letting the rows of towering shelves pull her deeper into the world of words, of facts and figures, collagen matrices and connective tissue, faraway continents and cultures. Of fictional disappointments and hungers that temporarily distracted her from the real ones.

"Brennan," Angela had said, lips curving in a wry smile as she handed her the brightly colored paper bag, "listen up: I'm about to share a very important life lesson with you."

Brennan quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? Please continue. I'm waiting with avid interest."

"Now, we both know you're not a girly girl, but every woman needs to treat herself to the occasional small luxury. It's practically an unwritten law."

"While I appreciate the thought, I find a bar of soap is perfectly adequate for daily hygiene."

Angela rolled her eyes, her wide smile taking on an ironic twist that Brennan knew meant she was laughing at her. "You would."

Brennan attempted to return the bag to her friend; Angela resolutely gave it back, shaking her head. "Just try it. Who knows? You might love it," she said with a wink. "Besides, why settle for adequate when you could have spectacular?"

This seemed to be Angela's motto in life, Brennan had learned through years of friendship. Whether it served her well or not, Brennan couldn't quite decide, but it was as intrinsically Angela as the bright hues she favored in clothing and decor. "I highly doubt that any bath gel is going to have that significant an impact on my life -- or my showering experience."

"Humor me, honey," Angela murmured, slinging an arm across Brennan's shoulders and giving her a light squeeze as they stepped out of the crisp, air conditioned atmosphere of Bath and Body Works and back into a heavy, humid summer day that would soon set loose strands of their hair curling haphazardly around their faces. "You'd be surprised what a difference one tiny change can make."

Angela had been right, as she often was, her artistic sensibilities equally valuable in and outside of the lab: the citrus and herb scent formed an unusual combination that tantalized Brennan's nose in a way more traditionally feminine floral or musk scents did not. While the body wash truthfully didn't make her feel cleaner than her usual bar of soap did, it did make her time in the shower markedly more pleasant. This was something she could appreciate; technology existed to better peoples' lives, and if this tiny advance in personal care products bettered hers, so be it.

Both the pragmatic and sensualistic sides of her were thus satisfied. After she used up the first bottle, she washed and recycled it, then made it a point to stop into Bath and Body Works after work one Friday and buy two more, so she never ran out unexpectedly.

The now-familiar scent hung in the moist air like a curtain. Gradually, the hot water pouring over her skin chased the winter chill that had settled in her muscles and bones and made her think longingly of her warm bed when she'd stumbled out of it to answer the door and determine who dared intrude upon her peace.

As the cackling and whirling gnomes who'd greeted her upon her first painful moments of consciousness quieted and then eventually vanished, in their wake they left a vacuum that rapidly filled with disconcerting impressions and flashes of memory of the previous evening.

Brennan inhaled to a count of ten slow breaths, chest and diaphragm expanding while she tried to will away the pressure throbbing in her head. "Hell of a hangover, huh?" Booth had asked her, a suspicious light dancing in his dark eyes as he watched her with an all-too-knowing expression plastered on his smug face.

Indeed...and she had no one to blame for it but herself, she silently conceded with disgust, distracted from her deliberately slow respiration. As a rule, she didn't like to drink to excess. The lowered inhibitions and slowed reflexes set her on edge. Temperance Brennan preferred to be in control of all her faculties.

Good things did not arise from her taking leave of her senses, she mused with a frown. For instance, last night her inebriated state had led her to offer to massage her partner's posterior. Oh no, she thought with growing horror, nearly slipping in the slick tub as the memory assaulted her again;_ she'd offered to massage her partner's posterior_. With a groan of mortification, Brennan switched off the shower and toweled herself off with more roughness than was necessary.

She knotted the thick towel above her breasts and stepped out of the tub, her skin prickling from the sudden cold. The long, leisurely shower she'd deemed a necessity had covered the mirror in condensation. She swiped her hand over it to clear some of the moisture, her stomach contracting as her pallid reflection came into regrettably sharp focus.

"Idiot," she muttered to herself with a toss of her head. Not only had she repeatedly offered to put her hands on Booth's admittedly well-formed gluteus maximus, she'd practically begged him to help her undress. This, she knew with absolute certainty, went far beyond the lines of their partnership.

But despite her embarrassment, her practical side was ever-present. If Booth was here and behaving normally, that had to mean she hadn't done any irreversible damage, didn't it? And if she had already nudged the limits, what could it hurt to push them a bit more, especially if that meant getting honest answers? She allowed that she didn't enjoy making a fool of herself, but what was done was done.

For all her clumsiness with social cues, Brennan was no fool. Oh, she knew what other people thought of her seeming obliviousness; someone as thoroughly trained in observation as scientists were did not miss the sidelong glances often cast in her direction. Attraction was not some unknown entity with which she had no previous experience. She and Booth had been skittering away from this thing for months. Years, even. She would face last night and its consequences like she did most other things -- head-on. When given a goal, she would seek it with a single-minded intensity that had brought her every hard-won accomplishment she claimed as her own.

If Pandora's box had sprung open, perhaps it should remain that way.

The sour taste in Brennan's mouth that was a remnant of the previous night's adventures caused her to grimace, and she quickly smeared toothpaste onto her brush. With narrowed eyes, she faced her reflection again, and before raising the brush to her mouth, she gave in to an uncharacteristic impulse and stuck her tongue out at herself. That done, she squared her shoulders and steeled herself to meet the day -- and Booth.

She had asked him a question; now he owed her an answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Word Count**: 1833

**A/N: **Yay for the election, and yay for new Bones. :) It's been a good week so far.

Thanks for reading, and if you choose to review now or have reviewed in the past, thank you for that, too.

* * *

After changing into jeans, an olive green sweater, and thick socks, Brennan made her way to the kitchen, intentionally keeping her footsteps quiet. She paused in the doorway to absorb the sight that greeted her tired eyes. Her gaze traced over the long line of Booth's body, slowly, deliberately; she didn't often have the chance to observe him unannounced.

He stood in front of her stove with his back to her, a black sweater she felt certain she'd never seen him wear before hugging his back and shoulders in a way that made her stomach do a slow somersault that had nothing to do with her overly enthusiastic consumption of alcohol the night before. His hair seemed different, softer and messier, less consciously styled than usual. The sudden dryness in her mouth made her swallow.

"How long are you gonna stand there shooting me death glares?" Booth asked without turning around. "It's not my fault you're hung over."

"I wasn't glaring at you. I was merely...observing your culinary activities without alerting you to my presence."

Booth snorted and shook his head. "Whatever you say, Bones," he replied, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "All I know is, if looks could kill, I'd be dead on the floor right now."

Since Booth was still turned away from her, Brennan allowed herself one swift, admiring look at his gluteus maximus -- the same one she'd offered to massage several hours before. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't use my eyes to do it," she replied dryly.

"Thanks," he muttered, one of her spatulas raised in his right hand as he half-angled his body toward her. Despite the fact that they almost always ordered takeout together rather than cooked, she had to admit that her partner seemed distinctly at ease in her kitchen, as if he was at home in this habitat. As if preparing a Saturday morning meal for her was a regular occurrence.

"You're welcome." Brennan stepped closer to him, watching his nostrils flare as he inhaled.

"That shower seems to have helped." His mouth shifted into a crooked half-smile that affected her more than it should have -- definitely more than she wanted it to. "At least you smell a little better now."

Narrowing her eyes at the barb, she resisted the childish urge to stick her tongue out at Booth.

"Have the seven dwarves stopped dancing?" he asked, wagging his eyebrows.

She sniffed. "The gnomes have vanished." Pausing, she flashed him a sidelong glance. "But some rather interesting recollections of the evening have resurfaced."

She watched him stiffen. It was a subtle change in his posture, one she might not have noticed before, when she didn't know him quite so well as she did now. While she didn't consider herself a master at decrypting body language, spending so many hours with this man in the lab, out in the field, and at the diner, had bestowed upon her a certain familiarity with his carriage and movements.

"Oh yeah?" The words came out carefully modulated. Avoiding her eyes, he stirred whatever was in the frying pan in front of him.

"Oh yes. For instance, I recall telling you that Angela believes I have you wrapped around my toe."

"Finger," he corrected.

"Fine, finger. So are you admitting that she's correct in her assessment?"

"Bones..." he said on a deep sigh filled with weariness.

"Booth," she replied, frowning, "you swore we would discuss this if I still thought it was relevant today."

"What exactly do you want to talk about?" he asked, his tone cautious.

"Us."

"What about us?"

She tipped her chin up. "I want to know what is happening between us."

"Nothing's happening between us, Bones. We had a couple drinks, laughed, and you woke up with the seven dwarves doing the polka in your head. Now I'm just making you breakfast. It's a nice, partnerly thing to do." His lips bent in a smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Will ya grab some plates and silverware, so we can eat?"

Frustrated, Brennan clenched her jaw for a moment before forcing it to relax. "No," she shot back, shaking her head roughly, "I will not. We are going to discuss this like adults. You're always so intent on my sharing things with you, personal things. But the second I push back and try to make it a more reciprocal arrangement, you attempt to be deliberately evasive." Folding her arms over her chest, this time she did send him a death glare.

With a scowl, Booth switched off the stove and carefully set the spatula in the pan before turning to face her full-on. "I'm not deliberately being anything, Bones. You wanted to talk, so talk." He spread his arms. "I'm listening."

"I kissed you," she said, and to her own ears it sounded like an accusation.

Booth brows lowered. "Sure." He shrugged, and the casual gesture made her want to slap him. "But like you said, it was like French people meeting on the street. And you did it so you could have a nice Christmas with your family. No big deal. It wasn't a kiss, kiss."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'No'?" he asked, forehead creasing in a frown.

"I lied."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because at the time, it was easier than telling the complete truth," she said, blurting out the admission before she could change her mind.

"OK..."

She waited for him to continue, but he didn't. He simply returned her gaze with a level one of his own. Straightening, she said, "That kiss, it was...it was more than just a means to get what I wanted from Caroline. I'm physically attracted to you. It's normal and healthy, and I was curious about it would be like to act on that physical attraction."

Booth blinked, but didn't otherwise react.

"Did you hear me?" she finally asked, irritated by the peevish edge in her voice but utterly helpless to control it.

"I heard you."

Why wasn't he being more responsive? This conversation was not progressing remotely as she'd thought and hoped it would. Nearing the limits of her patience, Brennan recalled the adage that said actions spoke louder than words. Crowding Booth, she set her hands on his shoulders, feeling the soft cotton of his sweater under her fingers, and leaned toward him, so intent on kissing him that it took her more than a second to notice when he turned his face at the last moment, leaving her lips to skim his cheek.

"Don't, Bones."

The soft admonishment hit her like a slap in the face. She blinked rapidly, feeling the heat of humiliation flood her face. Ignoring it, she moved back a few steps and forced herself to speak past the boulder in her throat. "Why?"

Without speaking, he shook his head and looked away from her, staring at the floor.

"I'm not stupid, Booth. You can deny it all you want, but when I kissed you on Christmas Eve, you kissed me back." She felt her eyes fill with moisture. _I will not cry_. "You're attracted to me, and I'm physically attracted to you."

His gaze lifted from the floor, capturing hers with its intensity. "See, that's a problem."

"Why is that a problem?" she argued. "We're adults and--"

"You're one of the most honest people I know," he said, interrupting her. "It's one of the things I like best about you. If you're physically attracted to me, I'm flattered. Really, I am. But like you said, it's physical." His expression softened. Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not going to jeopardize our partnership -- hell, our friendship -- for a fling. You've always made it really clear that you're just looking for physical companionship; I can't give you that. You want me to be one more guy you sleep with, maybe share a couple laughs with, but that's it. I'm sorry, but I don't want to be that guy for you." He huffed out a laugh tempered with more than a hint of sadness. "I can't." He shook his head, one hand resting at the back of his neck. "I won't."

"So what is it you're looking for, Booth?" Given that the conversation had progressed this far, it didn't seem that the incremental risk of pressing forward would be intolerably high.

"I don't know. Connection. Love, maybe."

"So you want to break the laws of physics. Is that what you're saying?"

"Not always. I'd be lying if I said I loved every woman I got involved with. But I won't do casual with you. You're different."

"Why am I the exception? Is it because I'm not your type?"

"Whoa. No. That's not it at all." Smiling a little, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. "Look, you're gorgeous and smart. You're every guy's type. It's like I told you a long time ago: there are some people you can't just sleep with. There's too much at stake."

Their previous conversation about sex and strings and stakes returned to her. She had understood his position then. Now, his words and his expression soothed the sting of rejection slightly. "But what if"--she paused for just a moment, recalling Angela's comment about not settling for adequate when you could have spectacular, and summoned the courage to continue in spite of the numerous doubts surfacing inside her--"hypothetically speaking, that is, I was willing to see if I wanted more -- could have more?" she asked, a tiny catch in her voice.

Leaning back against the kitchen island, Booth watched her, his expression thoughtful. "Hypothetically speaking, if you were willing to say, date for a while, no sex, and just see how things went... Maybe, possibly, there'd be more to talk about then."

"Date for a while, no sex," she echoed, nodding slowly. "That's fairly vague. What constitutes a date?"

"Come on, I know you're not that dense." Chuckling, Booth waved his arms in an expansive, exaggerated manner. "A date, like dinner, movies, stuff like that."

"And how long is a while?"

"Five dates? Ten dates? I don't know; I'd have to think about it." He quirked an eyebrow. "Why? Hypothetically speaking, are you saying I _should_ be thinking about it?"

It was a meaningful question; they were poised on the edge of something potentially momentous. The cautious side of her nature suggested that further consideration would be prudent. "Well, why don't I first find those plates you requested, so I can see what horrible food you're trying to foist on me?"

Booth scratched his cheek, expression serious, and she held her breath, waiting to see if he would accept her need to step back. His expression finally relaxed into the smile she knew nearly as well as she knew her own; she exhaled in relief. "Fair enough," he said. "You get the plates, I'll get the food. It'll be a team effort."

* * *

**A/N: **

**11/7/08**: FYI, If you're looking for updates on any of my stories, please note that I'm currently unable to upload anything to the site. I received an email from saying that one of my stories, Prismatic, had been removed from the site. The message said that Prismatic violated 's guidelines. "Main reason for removal: "Non-story: lists, notes, polls, announcement, and etc." I was also informed that "This infraction has been recorded and as a result, you will not have story submission ability for a few days."

I don't understand how Prismatic wasn't a story, but there you have it.


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